The Aftermath of Silence
by Breeze-Riddle
Summary: AU. When muggles begin adapting, the wizardry world is dragged into war once more. Hermione, by a twist of fate, is now the only person left, and spends years looking for a solution. Finally, she has a chance to start anew and save her world from the path it is headed. TMRHG. Time-travel. Riddle-era. Armageddon.
1. Silent Endings

Anyone reading my other fics, this right here is the reason I haven't updated recently. This idea has been running through my head obsessively - I simply _had_ to write it.

I'm really excited about this story. It has a lot of potential to be something great. I hope everyone enjoys reading as much as I thoroughly enjoyed writing.

Slow updates. No Beta.

Disclaimer: I'm sure you already know, but I'll say it anyways: I do not own Harry Potter. Credit to the definition below - and any other ones I may use - goes to Dictionary/./com.

* * *

**Chapter One - Silent Endings**

Silence (sahy-l_uh_-ns) - noun - 1. absence of any sound or noise; stillness. 2. the state or fact of being silent; muteness.

Hermione used to enjoy the silence - cherished it even. Hogwarts hadn't been somewhere the presence of such stillness could be easily found. Even the library, though certainty quiet, had not quite had _pure_ and _utter silence; _page's in tombs turning and disturbing the air; quiet murmurs from those studying as a group; stifled laughter and the odd snort; bird chirps traveling through the windows; leaves rustling.

The Burrow had - unquestionably - _not_ been silent. Nor Grimmauld Place. The Weasley family had never been known as a quiet bunch - an extreme understatement if there ever was one. And as for number twelve, Walburga Black had squashed any blessed peace achieved - irritatingly beyond the grave.

The once curly haired teen had not known _why_ she enjoyed silence so. True silence, such stillness that one is sure time had frozen in place, was a delicacy the witch had _craved_.

She had been sure it had not even existed once upon a time. The Golden Trio's fifth year had brought true meaning to the useless word - the key having been undisturbed _meditation_. With Umbridge tainting the joy she experienced from simply being one of the hundreds residing inside the old stone structure, Hermione had had great need of a reprieve

Harry had given her the idea - the fact it was unintentional did not matter. With Occlumency lessons every week trained by Professor Snape and Harry and Ron's need to complain about said Potion's Master, the phrase - mocked in a _completely_ inaccurate impression - _clear your mind,_ had stuck.

When not with her two best friends or the DA, Hermione had been locked in a cozy room in the Room of Requirments studying Occlumency books. Of course, the act of blocking Legilimency was a useful ability, but truthfully, it had only been a perk. The true goal was ultimate silence - a goal which, like every other one established by the dedicated teen, had been successful.

Hermione did not know when such an obsession began, nor did it particularly matter - but she knew the _exact day_ it had ended.

October 30, 2002. Ironically, and tragically, the day before Samhian. A new Witch's Year indeed.

Two years and three months after the Battle of Hogwarts, the Wizardry World discovered that war, it seemed, was not quite forgotten. It began simple enough - acts that which had been brushed off as an inconvenience and something easily fixed. That is until witches and wizards realized the true, horrifying cause of the cumbersome events.

Muggles who had been exposed to large amounts of _obliviates_ had began to _adapt_.

Suddenly dozens of non-magical folk had knowledge of a world they had been seperate from for centuries. And then dozens turned to hundreds. And then to thousands. When the number reached millions, only sixth months had passed and the Wizardry World was officially dragged into another war.

The Order of the Phoenix had tried to negotiate; to explain and show that they were not a danger - as a whole - like the panicked muggles believed.

They had not been successful.

When it - the impossiblity, the hopeless cause and attempt - had thoroughly sunk in, a quarter of all witches and wizards had been exterminated.

Most had been muggleborns. Neighborhoods remembering odd happenings occurring around certain children; families betraying their own - whether by their hand or simply with the act of giving up their child or member; attacks in muggle cities on those who stupidly could not blend in with non-magicals. Even Hermione had found herself in danger around those she had fought to protect, though being the brilliant witch she was known for, she managed to escape unscathed

The Order had lost five members only a month into the war: Emmeline Vance, Hestia Jones, Dedalus Diggle, Elphias Doge, and Fleur Delacour. The French Veela had been the final provocation for the Weasley family - thus Harry Potter and Hermione Granger as well.

The world had gone down hill from there.

On October 30, 2002, the muggle governments had obtusely launched a nuclear bomb at the largest, populated wizardry camp in Asia - if it could even be called a 'camp'. Housing over ten thousand magical beings, the area had been spotted via satellite. Everyone was instantly, and thankfully, painlessly killed.

The consequences of the act had been much more severe than the muggles had accounted for though. In their recklessness, panic, and fear, the non-magical humans had not considered the backlash of radiation - enough that which would have made more than half of Asia inhabitable.

One important variable had not been calculated however.

The laws and expectations in regards of magic were different than that of muggles. Gravity, if wanted, could be discarded. Atoms in an object could be manipulated to form something entirely different than from before. Electricity was useless in a heavily concentrated magical area, fizzling out without a fight or exploding in protest.

A nuclear bomb set on the largest population of witches and wizards had dire consequences that no one had foreseen. Reacting to the chaotic energy living in the 'abominations', the same energy alive in charmed artifacts and wards surrounding the area, the nuclear weapon destroyed almost all of Asia in seconds. And the radiation, mingling with magic to form a new deadly solution, crept over the world in an unforgiving storm.

Thus, all species had been eradicated.

And then there was only silence.

* * *

Cursing, she threw the useless book across the room, something her younger self would have been horrified by. But Hermione Granger was no longer an eleven-year-old child or an eighteen-year-old young adult. At the age of thirty six, she was a woman who, quite frankly, did not give a damn.

About anything.

That was not quite true, she corrected. She cared, but about one thing and one thing only - finding a way, anyway, to turn back time and change the present. Or if she had her way, the future.

Fifteen years and she still had not found anything remotely relevant. Though since she literally had all the time in the world, her hopes did not dissipate in the slightest.

Her mind was another matter.

The last human - correction: the last living being on earth was not all that it was cracked out to be.

...and that statement was a wonderful example of her lapsing sanity.

Not that anyone - if there was a person alive, that is - could blame her. Fifteen years of nothing but herself for company was bound to effect her 'sound' mind (she snickered at the horrible pun). And with losing everyone she cared for - Merlin, everyone she loathed, was indifferent to, or didn't even know - only stretched the thin line of her mind even more.

It was a wonder she hadn't offed herself already.

Oh - that's right. Immortality. Not quite as grand as many had thought. If only Voldemort could see her now - or perhaps he could...was every dead being watching her, the lone survivor of earth? Though if such a thing were possible, it was probably only those who had magical abilities doing so. She hoped muggles were, though, and she flipped off the ceiling for good measure.

Then paused at the thought of Harry or the Weasley's - or, gods forbid, her parents! - getting such a greeting after so long. Sheepishly lowering her finger, she was about to apologize before realizing just what she was doing.

Insanity was not a pretty thing. Though she would argue - to herself, of course - that she wasn't _quite_ insane. Yet. Only a little...unhinged. Just a little of course. Any more than that and she would be worried.

Sighing and lowering her head, she rubbed her temples as if that would dispel the rubbish thoughts littering her mind. No such luck.

Rolling her eyes, she relaxed back in her nice, plush chair (emerald green, and in her longing, she briefly mused at the possibility of sitting on Harry's bright iris'. Then she cringed and pushed the bizarre thought away). Licking her lips, she took a sip of water out of her wine glass. Hey, if she couldn't have aged grape juice, she would just have to pretend.

Right - where was she?

Oh yes, immortality. What a brilliant accident _that_ had been (sarcasm was coming much easier these days). After the final battle - dubbed the Battle of Hogwarts. Original, isn't it? - Harry had, just to be safe, requested both Hermione and Ron _accio_ a Deathly Hallow of their choice - sans invincibility cloak. Her best friend had not wanted to take the chance of acquiring the rumored - and as she now knows: true - immortality that came with being the Master of Death.

With the elder wand in her possession, and the cloak and stone magically willed to her incase of death, Hermione had become said master. Though she still wasn't quite sure how this event had occurred...of course Ron had died before the bombing thus the stone (her friend having wanted to see Fred after his death) had been rightfully her's, but she and Harry had both been in the same camp when the bombing had taken place...

She shrugged, pushing these musings away. She had already spent days thinking of reasons why Harry had somehow died before her, but couldn't find a logical enough answer.

And die she did.

Hermione did not know how long had passed before she had 'awoken'. Long enough for radiation to vanish, that much she knew. The time was irrelevant regardless. It changed nothing.

Biting her lip roughly, she picked up another book from her pile and prepared herself for a long night.

Who was she kidding? (Only herself, obviously. Trying, that is.)

Every night was a long one.

* * *

The time alone from others had done wonders for her magical abilities - and, perhaps most importantly, her affinity.

Before the bombing, Hermione had been the optimum of a Light witch. Bright magic only, easily controlled and bringing feelings of a gentle breeze - nothing that overwhelmed her or could be felt thrumming throughout her whole body. In all honesty, Hermione had never tried any other magic but _Light_ so did not know if such strong feelings even existed. (Except from an excellent orgasm, of course.)

The first few years - oh, who _was_ she trying to kid? The first few _months_ after Armageddon, she had stuck to her beliefs of Light Magic only. But without anyone to rein in her curiosity - and desperation. Trying to save her old world before tragedy hit, remember? - can she really be blamed for picking up a Dark book? No, she didn't think so.

Hermione only used the excuse of saving the world for her new reading material for the first few books. And then she simply couldn't be bothered.

Very interesting discoveries indeed.

Even before Voldemort had been killed, Hermione's opinion of Albus Dumbledore had diminished incredibly. And it honestly had nothing to do with Rita Seeker and more of raising her best friend to be a sacrificial lamb. First it was sending a _boy_ to find the madman's Horcruxes; and then it was knowing said boy was a _human Horcrux_.

So she hadn't been Dumbledore's biggest fan for awhile - to the chagrin of her inner child, who, quite annoyingly now, had practically worshiped authority.

And then upon discovering that Dark Magic was not, in fact, evil_ at all_, completely destroyed any respect she had for the late Headmaster.

Hermione had always wondered why she hadn't been as good at Defense Against the Dark Arts compared to any other class. Because an E on her exams had never been 'brilliant' despite what her friends had said - at least considering her other grades (all O's of course).

With a Neutral ritual, Hermione had found the answer to why.

The affinity of one's magic heavily influenced the spells a witch or wizard could cast with ease. While every witch was capable of performing any type of magic, those with certain affinities could only cast naturally if those spells were imbued in properties that matched their core.

It wasn't a difficult concept to understand - at least for Hermione - so what she _didn't_ understand was the prejudiced against different branches of magic. Didn't the wizardry world recognize that they were limiting those who didn't have a Light affinity? It was maddening.

And Hermione herself was of those who had been confined. Because, as she found out, her affinity was not Light like the world had so assumed - but _Dark_.

The only reason she was able to perform Light Magic so easily was the simple fact that her core was so large. If she had been an average witch in terms of magical powers, her grades at Hogwarts - of the practical intent - would not have been so perfect. Because while Charms and Transfiguration were of Neutral Magic, the spells taught leaned more towards the Light than the Dark. Defense Against the Dark Art's was another story altogether. Obviously the whole course was defensive Light Magic, thus explaining her grades in the class. Which also explained why Potion's - despite what others had believed - had been her favorite class at Hogwarts.

Potion's as a whole was Neutral. Though wizard's didn't need to actively cast magic when brewing a potion, their magic was still involved in the process - otherwise muggles would easily be able to brew a potion as well. That being said, one's affinity of magic effected the potion they were making just as it would with spells. Because the branch was Neutral, any magical being could make an adequate potion. But while Charms and Transfiguration leaned towards Light Magic (at least at Hogwarts), Potion's was more in the Dark spectrum than any other course taught at the school. If the class wasn't a necessity, Hermione wouldn't be surprised if Dumbledore had cut the course altogether.

So on top of searching for a way to change time, Hermione had begun honing her Dark Magic abilities. After fifteen years and with a photographic memory to boot, she would say she was up to par with Lucius Malfoy at his best. Perhaps higher, though she really had no way of testing this theory.

With the knowledge of where she was planning on going (and she would, no matter if it took centuries), she also worked on her dueling. Since Hermione had always been an excellent dueler - one couldn't survive a war if they weren't - her skills now in the area were...spectacular. (Modesty seemed to be a thing of the past.)

Incorporating muggle defense - such as hand-to-hand combat - and daily excercises had left Hemione's youthful body (she supposed immortality did have it's perks) very _fit_. Which she thought said something as her body pre-apocalypse had not been bad at all.

Her appearance wasn't the reason for her ruthless determination, though. Because when Hermione found a way, she would be traveling to the year 1944 - Tom Riddle's seventh year at Hogwart's.

During Hermione's - well, obsessive was an apt word to use - search for all things Dark, she had stumbled upon an innocent looking pamphlet. And it was the _innocence_ that had shocked her to the core.

Hermione was well aware that Lord Voldemort had been a madman, a sociopath if there ever was one. But that one little pamphlet had changed her entire _world_ (or past world, since the one she identified with now was of the Dark variety, but she digressed).

Voldemort was a raving lunatic, yes, but - to her very _loud_ surprise - Tom Riddle was _not_.

Somehow, between losing his - brilliant - mind and the First War, the man with_ too many damn names _had changed his goals. Where they once had been good intended - if radical - plans of changing the wizardry world, in his madness, they had developed into the sinister ideals Hermione was familiar with. Kill the mudbloods; ruler of the world; "_Bow before me, servants!"_

Though to be fair, world domination was involved in both - but while it had only been a perk with the first set of goals, it had been the reason for the latter.

Tom Riddle - a completely _different_ person than ol' snake-face - had plan's to revitalize the Wizardry World. Merging Muggleborn's by taking the infants from their families while erasing any memories of the child as soon as they were magically written in the system. Completely and utterly cutting off from the muggle world. Re-introducing magical traditions.

What Hermione had not known - what nobody had told her - was the fact that the Wizardry World as a whole was considered _pagan_. And paganism was _very_ different than Christianity.

Her years of absorbing as much information on the Dark Art's had been enlightening on the ways of the Wizardry World. For example: holiday's such as Halloween and Christmas were really _Sahmian_ and _Yuletide_; day's to honor the dead and the birth and gift of magic; days to honor the _Dark Mother and Dark Father._

Hermione had wanted to feel confused when first discovering this. Wanted to be ignorant of why the Ministry - why _Dumbledore_ - had celebrated and followed _muggle_ traditions rather than their own. But Hermione had always been intelligent (her IQ was genius level, after all) so she could not bury her head under the sand, so to speak. It was obvious why those considered _Light_ had not upheld the traditions of their ancestors.

Prejudice. It was as simple and as complex as that.

To know that she had been on the _wrong side _her whole life - for her life really began at age eleven - had caused a severe mental break down that lasted for _months_. Though it could be said she had never really had a choice as she had never _known_, as her side had been _corrupted by madness._ Nevertheless, she had felt like a traitor to her own _self_.

When realizing it had never truly been her fault, and when realizing she had a chance to change - herself, the world, magic - that was when true determination set in. And that was when she focused her all on only two things - magic and time.

_Very interesting discoveries indeed._

* * *

A few clarifications:

I am _not_ a scientist. I have no real idea what would happen if a large nuclear bomb had been set on a fairly big area. For the sake of this story, world wide radiation is the result. Please don't complain about how unrealistic the idea is - as this is fanfiction, I frankly don't give a damn, my dear.

No, Hermione is _not_ insane. I know it seems that way, but she isn't. Hermione has been alone for a very long time; she is extremely bored and lonely. Of course her thoughts won't be normal, just as she won't be completely in character. Would you be in her position? I think not.

Witch's Year: this is the Celtic new year which takes place on Samhain, October 31.

This isn't really relevant to the story, but to those who wonder, I will tell you as Hermione never really knows. Harry died before she did because the coordinates the muggles used were slightly skewed because of magical disturbance. Instead of bombing the very center of the camp, the left side (where Harry had been) was targeted, and Hermione was on the very right. She died only mere seconds behind Harry, but it was enough for magic. So no, it wasn't Fate or any other higher power that made this decision. Only chance (note the lack of capitalization).

Yes, this is a Tom/Hermione story. I'm still not sure how long it will be before they get together, but it will eventually happen. There may be questions on Hermione's age and how it will effect her relationship with Tom. I just want to say: Hermione is physically and - pretty much - mentally a twenty-ish year old witch with issues.

Anyways, reviews are appreciated. I would enjoy knowing what others think so far, if there are any ideas, and even complaints - though of the polite variety, please. I'm not perfect and I have no Beta, but I tried my best with the editing. I probably missed many mistakes, so if anyone finds large ones, feel free to tell me.

Thank you for reading, and next time, the A/N won't be so long. Promise.


	2. Sacrificial Choices

I wasn't expecting to update so soon. Don't base future updates on this one because I honestly just write when I'm inspired. I don't like to force chapters because the end result doesn't flow correctly - therefore I do not have a schedule.

No Beta.

* * *

**Chapter Two - Sacrificial Choices **

Sacrifice (sak-r_uh-_fahys) - noun - 1. the offering of animal, plant, or human life or of some material possession to a deity, as in propitiation or homage. 2. the surrender or destruction of something prized or desirable for the sake of something considered as having a higher or more pressing claim.

Everything required a sacrifice, a price to pay. Hermione knew this intimately well. After all, wasn't her life the perfect example of such a notion? Consistent throughout - sacrifice after sacrifice, a few short moments of peace, a breather in between. Hermione would even say she was an expert on this philosophy, and unfortunately, she wasn't sure she would ever be able to retire.

The required sacrifice could be small, an almost mindless after thought - such as a handful of sweets or a Galleon or two. It could also be neutral - something one could part with indifferently, not even sparing a second for the decision. And then there were the sacrifices she was most familiar with, the ones that took a piece of oneself, leaving a gaping whole behind. Friends lost. A limb gone. Happiness taken. The whole bloody world eradicated in a blink of a eye.

So when she found her solution, the very thing she had been researching for _fifteen years_ now, she was both ecstatic and _wary. _It wasn't even the fact that she had to summon _Death_ himself that made her so cautious. It was with the knowledge that with _great_ wishes came _great _sacrifices.

The ritual was simple enough - though if there were others alive, they would argue against such a statement with a great deal of incredulously. The potion was already brewed, the circle cast, and she had the Deathly Hallow's in their designated places. All that was needed now was the spell to be chanted and her blood to be spilt.

The problem, the only problem, was the sacrifice. All the book had said on the matter was that a price was needed. No clarifications, no choices to pick from. Only that Death had a price, and if one was not willing to meet such a proposal, then their soul was lost for eternity after their death.

Wonderful.

Hermione would do it though - even if Death asked for her mind, she would do it. Anything was better than _this _existence. For that was what she was doing - merely existing. Hermione wanted to _live; _she wanted life to have more meaning than simply days upon days of research and only her sarcastic and odd thoughts to keep her entertained.

Though she prayed Death didn't ask for her mind: whether that be her sanity or intelligence. Or worse, _both._

For one, she would need her intellect to survive her mission. What would be the point if she didn't have the smarts to carry such an admittedly desperate task? Hermione may not know Tom Riddle, but she would wager the possible Dark Lord would not listen to a moronic bimbo. Mocking laughter was a probable reaction she would garner.

And her sanity...she wasn't even sure she had much left. But she hoped such limitations would improve once she was around the living once more. If Death required it, there wouldn't be any chance of recovering and she would be left as sane as Bellatrix Lestrange had been. Not a future she hoped for.

With a sigh, she admitted she was stalling. Might as well get this summons over and done with before she talked herself out of it.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the ritual circle. The silver blade needed - runes of death, sacrifice, beginnings and endings engraved into the polished metal - was clenched tightly in a fist. With a quick slash, her left palm sported a deep cut, and she fisted her hand for a moment to cause more blood to flow. Closing her eyes, arms spread and fingers splayed in summon, one hand steadily dripping blood, she intoned:

_Vos obsecro, morte senem. Eique vota premunt te sacrifies abundetis. Audi vocem meam, obsecro._

Magic stirred in the air, answering the call of her voice. A pulsing began to move through her body, beginning at her core and steadily traveling throughout the rest of her system. Swallowing a moan at the energy coursing through her, she continued:

_Vos obsecro, morte senem. Eique vota premunt te sacrifies abundetis. Audi vocem meam, obsecro!_

Electric like sparks danced across her skin and shot from her hair, causing the mass of curls to frizz and unfurl. Her hands and arms began shaking from the weight of the heavy magic in the air, breaths quickening into gasps and pants. There was a pressure in her abdomen where she knew her core was located, but the feeling was not painful.

Her voice had gotten louder during the second chant, and continued to rise as she began the third without missing a beat.

_Vos obsecro, morte senem. Eique vota premunt te sacrifies abundetis. AUDI VOCEM MEAM, OBSECRO!_

Back arched, hair and cloak whipping furiously around her, Hermione's mouth opened in a soundless scream as her head violently tossed back. It felt as if a thousand of orgasms were ripping through her form, the ecstasy almost too overwhelming for her human mind to handle.

Time seemed frozen, the euphoria lasting for only few seconds and many decades. When the intense pleasure from the substantial amount of magical energy - so deliciously _dark - _coursing through Hermione's body began to subside, she slumped but did not loose her footing. Panting heavily, body shaking something fierce, she couldn't formulate a single thought for long moments after. Finally, her mind not as muddled, she straightened-

-only to jump back with a startled yelp. Hand over her heart and eyes wide, she stared up at the intimidating picture before her.

Tall - so very tall - the being, _Death, _must have been at least seven foot. Long limbs almost translucent in coloring, the contrast of his pitch black robes only heightened the paleness of the skin stretched taunt over a lean, cut figure. Dark, _dark_ eyes stared back at her, hair the same shade as the draping robes and so long that the tips grazed his narrow waist. The aura around Death was so startling and overwhelming that Hermione's mind short circuited for several seconds, his magic seeming to _embrace _her.

And then, as she slowly adjusted to the powerful - so powerful her heart was running in her chest - aura, she came to a realization. For the first time in _fifteen years, _she was in the presence of a living being. (The pun almost made her choke in hysterical laughter.)

Jerking a step forward, halting reluctantly, she began babbling in excitment. "Oh, Merlin. Oh, Merlin! Can I touch you?!" Death raised an eyebrow and an amused glint entered his eyes though Hermione was too wound up to notice. "Not...not sexually, of course - though if you were to offer...it's been so _long_...but - _can I touch you? _Years, bloody _years_ since I've seen _anyone, _anyone at all! I would be happy to see the _ferret _after so long! Just - _please_, can I _touch_ you?" She panted, staring up at Death with wide, desperate eyes.

A pause - one that was not very long at all, but to Hermione, felt like eons. And then-

"Very well."

The voice's smooth quality and low timber wasn't the cause of her reaction. While lovely, it was the simple fact that in so long, Death's voice was the first she had heard spoken in _ages_. (Other than her own, of course.) Her breath left her in a _whoosh _and she found herself unable to move, the two words seeming to echo in her mind for an eternity. But she managed to snap out of her reverie with the remembered promise of _touch; _something she used to take for granted but now realized what a gift such actions were.

Scrambling forward, not caring how she appeared to Death at the moment, air expelled loudly from her lungs when she laid a trembling hand on the man commonly known as the Grim Reaper. It was only his arm, but it overwhelmed Hermione so much that tears prickled at her eyes. The hand tightened and her lids closed, biting her lip roughly as she shook from the feelings coursing through her.

Longing. Relief. Hope. Yearning. Disbelief. Bliss.

The warmth under her palm had caused her heart to skip a beat or twelve. (And wasn't that funny that _Death _was _warm?) _Legs quaked and her lip quivered, her hand vibrating intensely so. Hermione was sure she was going to collapse any second, embarrassingly crumbling to the floor like a pathetic damsel in distress. She would never be able to look Death in the eyes after _that_.

But these worries only lasted for a moment. With a deep breath, she dragged a mask of composure from deeply within her, concealing her warring emotions. Hermione took a step back but her hand stayed on Death's arm, as if it was physically impossible to move it ever again. Before she could try, a larger hand rested over her own, pulling a trembling gasp from her lips.

Her eyes shot back to Death's and she waited with a held breath for the being to shove her hand away.

But he never did.

"It's alright, Hermione," he told her gently, squeezing her fingers with his. She shuddered violently at the almost tender touch and the noise, wrapping her free arm around her waist. Death stared at her intently, and the soft, understanding look in his dark eyes made Hermione want to sob. "It's alright," he repeated firmly. "Do what you need."

Deliberation wasn't required. Hesitantly moving closer, she, at his nod of permission, wrapped trembling arms slowly around the darkly clad waist. The shudders wracking her body were fierce and her breaths seemed especially loud to her, echoing in her mind.

When long arms embraced her like Death's magic had before, her body was frozen as if stunned, and then after a shaky exhale, she completely slumped against the body pressed to hers. The warmth was overwhelming. The feeling of being held was so foreign after so long that Hermione almost didn't recognize it, but whole-heartedly welcomed the feelings all the same.

Breaths turned to gasps. And gasps turned to sobs.

Hermione didn't know how long she stood there - embraced for the first time in so, _so _long, crying on _Death's chest. _But when she finally - reluctantly - pulled away, her legs were stiff and her arms ached from the tight grip she had had while hugging (bloody hugging!) Death.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, mortified. Wiping her eyes and cheeks roughly, she swallowed hard as she stared at her feet.

A hand under her chin caused her eyes to shoot up, and Death tilted her head from it's position pointed at the ground. He shook his head, long hair barley stirring. "You've been alone for a very long time," he told her gently. "It's alright, Hermione," he repeated once more, and something in his eyes made her believe him.

Swallowing again, she nodded slowly. "I...okay."

Death studied her for a moment and then gave a short nod. "Now, let us discuss why you have summoned me. Though I am sure I can deduce the gist of what you require."

"Yes." She took a deep breath to compose herself. Then gestured to two armchairs and inquired quietly, "Would you like to sit?" The amused look he gave her made Hermione feel slightly foolish, but he took a seat all the same. "As I'm sure you have guessed," she began after settling. "I wish to travel back in time." Death didn't seem surprised. "To the date August 20, 1944 to be exact."

The expression Death adopted told Hermione _now _she had shocked him - though it was very subtle, she saw it nevertheless. "1944?" A thoughtful look appeared in his eyes and then a brow slowly rose. "Tom Riddle's seventh year?"

"Yes." Hermione allowed a small smile to develop. "As you are Death, I'm assuming you are aware of Riddle's original goals?" At his nod, she continued. "I intend to see Riddle's plans come to fruition. Though I am not sure if I will reveal my past, I will somehow find a way to dissuade the boy from the use of Horcrux's, thus securing his sanity."

Death leant back in the armchair, crossing a leg and staring at her over steepled fingers. "There is more."

"I need possessions to live in 1944," Hermione said, her eyes flickering to the side for a moment before resting back on the heavy presence before her. "Galleons, clothes, a home with pictures of 'my' deceased parents. My life in the Ministry files; a birth certificate, death certificates for parents, testing results." She shrugged. "The less suspicious Riddle is, the better."

Death hummed and stared at Hermione as he thought. She resisted the urge to squirm and was thankful when he blinked, a smirk curling on his face.

"Very well, Hermione." She breathed a sigh of relief while Death titled his head. "I have been watching you, young witch." He told her in a murmur, looking at her intently for a moment. Hermione wasn't sure how she felt about being stalked by Death, but she supposed it was understandable with her being the last person alive on Earth. "I have seen the progress you have made over the years in the Dark Art's. If I had been summoned by another, I would have granted the request with the knowledge that they would fail. _But you_..." His smirk widened into a smile. "I believe _you_ shall succeed."

Hermione blinked. And then blinked again. That...was probably the best compliment she had ever been given. And the reassurance she now felt seemed to lift a weight from her shoulders.

"Thank you, sir," she said gratefully, bowing her head slightly.

Death hummed again - and then he abruptly stood from his seat. Hermione started, staring at the towering figure striding towards the ritual circle.

"Now-" he began, beckoning her forward with a curl of his fingers. Hermione rose from her chair and hurried over, resuming her place in the circle from earlier. "-for your price."

Death watched as Hermione began nibbling hard on her bottom lip in nerves, her hand's twisting the bottom of her shirt. After a few moments passed in silence, Hermione ventured with, "The price, sir?"

He didn't say anything for a long while, the minutes ticking by as he studied the witch. Finally, with a nod, he snapped his fingers and the Deathly Hallows appeared in his hands. "The price-" he began after another moment of staring at his creations, "-is your immortality."

She blinked. And then, as the reality of what Death had said sunk in, she slowly smiled. The wariness she felt earlier lessened but did not dissipate completely. "Is that all?" She asked, disbelieving. "My immortality? I won't be cursed with a half life? Bad luck for as long as I live?"

Death smirked and a glint of approval entered his eyes. "The price is simply that: your immortality. Many would not give such a gift up easily."

_Thank Merlin, _was the only thought that passed through Hermione's mind.

The witch couldn't help but scoff. "It has not been a gift - in all respect, sir," she hastened in the case of offending Death. "I never wished for immortality, and with being the only human alive on this planet, even less so. It will, in all honesty, be a relief. So - I accept."

Death did not seem surprised by her comments or answer, simply nodded his head and murmured solemnly, "So mote it be."

When the air in the room stirred and began to tear at Hermione's robes and hair, she gasped in surprise. She would have stumbled if her feet didn't appear to be glued to the floor beneath her. Wrapping her arms around her waist tightly, as if to hold herself together amidst the storm of magic, she stared at Death's gradually fading face with wide eyes. She had not expected her wish to be granted so quickly. Instant gratification indeed.

Before the room completely disappeared, the last thing she heard was a whispered voice in her ear. "Good luck, Hermione Granger. We will be meeting again."

And, oddly enough, Hermione felt no fear.

* * *

I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter!

I received a message stating that an email was sent for a new chapter posted on AOS two (?) days ago. I'm not sure why this is, but I'm guessing it was a result of my going back and editing. Perhaps it was a mistake on my part or an error with fanfiction, I don't know. Hopefully it doesn't happen again, but I'll just have to wait and see.

As for bringing Death into the story: seems a little cliché I believe, but I hadn't really planned on doing so. The original idea was for Hermione to perform a simple ritual, but somehow this came to be. I let the story write itself and only have a vague idea of the final product, honestly - though I know the main and minor themes as well as the hidden ones. So Death, the sexy bastard, brought himself in, not I. And, on that topic, the definition was a hint of what was to come. Diety=Death, got it?

Reviews would be amazing. Long reviews especially, though I completely understand if you only have time to drop a small comment or not even do so at all. I like to know how my readers feel about the story so far, if they have ideas or thoughts they wish to share, constructive criticism, favorite parts in the chapter, so on and so forth. Oh, and questions, which I promise to answer. I try to reply to all my reviewers because I love every single one of you.x)

Anyways, until next time, darlings.


	3. Sounds Forgotten

Notes at the bottom. No Beta.

* * *

**Chapter Three - Sounds Forgotten**

Sound - noun - 1. the particular auditory effect produced by a given causes; any audible vibrational disturbance. 2. a noise, vocal utterance, musical tone, or the like.

Lazily sprawled across soft grass and basking in the sun was a luxury Hermione now cherished. Such a common way to pass time, taken for granted by many, but she now knew how precious such a gift really was. When the world is drowned in grays and browns, plants and wild life a thing of the past, the bright, healthy green of lush grass was a true treasure to behold.

Almost as much as the songs sung by the birds overhead.

Quirking her lips, Hermione hummed quietly, utterly content for the first time in a _very _long while.

When she had first arrived in the past, the witch had been overwhelmed with the harmony of noises. Though others - people who had notexperienced the apocalypse - would argue, Hermione had found the world for the first time in fifteen years too _loud. _Not even near human population, the chirps of birds, the breeze rustling tree branches covered in leaves and full bushes, even the faint buzzing of insects had simply been too much.

A panic attack ensued and a time lapse of several hours passed. The only thing Hermione could remember during her first moments in the 1940's were the life like recurring memories of her past. Screams of pure, unadulterated terror; hysterical shouts of hopeless spells and failed attempts to take down the wards halting their escape; crying children and sobbing mothers; the images of horror stricken faces, frantic running, goodbyes, and the evidence of their fates from far above.

When she had managed to snap out of her horrifying memories and the resulting breakdown, Hermione had been in the very same spot she had arrived in; the only difference being her crumpled position on the ground.

With stubborn resolution, she had pushed her lingering feelings of despair out of her mind and taken in her surroundings. Towering trees, vibrant flowers, thick grass, and an abundance of various shades of _green, _Hermione had spent long minutes gazing around the land of her new home in awe.

Not bothering to look around the house sitting a fairly long walk away, the witch had spent hours outside trailing her fingers over flower petals and walking bare-foot to feel the plush ground beneath her feet. Hermione had even climbed a large maple tree smelling of sap, perched upon a thick branch and watched the wild life around her. She had gone so far as to softly encourage squirrels to come near - alas, she had failed miserably in the endeavor but her lightened mood had not fallen.

When the woman had managed to pull herself away from the breathtaking, thriving surroundings of nature, she had reluctantly entered the house Death had so graciously bestowed upon her.

It was a large place - not a manor but a home that could comfortably house seven people if need be. Two stories in height, stones crawling with ivy, and a basement - transformed into a lab - below, Hermione couldn't help feeling almost as lonely as she had felt for the past fifteen years.

Almost.

Because she now knew that others were out there - billions of people in fact. (Though, while not necessarily wishing the death of muggles, the curly haired witch cringed at the thought of having to interact with the non-magicals. She was much too raw still - even after fifteen years; _especially_ after fifteen years - to consider them without bias.)

Hermione had quickly stifled the negative emotions though, instead surveying the stacks of files and parchment that had been placed in the master bedroom.

Her new birth certificate was very similar to her real one - the only difference being the year of her birth and the first names of her parents. She was still Hermione Jane Granger, which she thought was fortunate as reflexively responding to a new name would have taken time to master. Born on September 16, 1923, daughter of Helene and Mark Granger, the witch was twenty years old, soon to be twenty-one.

Her 'parents' had died in an automobile accident three years before, the very same way those who had birthed her had been killed. Hermione supposed Death thought her cover story should be as similar to that of her real life as it could. (Minus Hogwarts and the extinction of mankind, of course.) Very fortunate indeed because, while Hermione considered herself a proficient liar, she didn't want to risk the chance of slipping up on small details.

In addition to the death certificates of Hermione's parents, there were also several others for lost 'loved ones'. All muggleborns (with the exception of the 'Wesley's'), all named after her dead friends. Harry Jameson. Ronald, Ginevra, Fred and George Wesley. Luna Lovington. Neville Longwood. Killed in battle one or two years before Hermione arrived. Death had even pinned a note stating files of her deceased friends were in the Ministry and muggle systems, and that he had even gone so far as to plant false memories of her fallen loved ones (and herself) in the mind of one Gellert Grindelwald - and everyone else who would have noticed and known the group.

Hermione wasn't sure how she felt about the latter actions on Death's part, at least in terms of the current terrorist of the Wizardry World. Couldn't he had simply 'killed' her friends with something normal? Now Grindelwald had memories of Hermione fighting as well, and she did not want any thoughts pertaining to her from the self-proclaimed Dark Lord. Granted, she and her 40's group of friends were probably brushed off memories sitting in the back of the man's mind, but she would have rather had a more inconspicuous back story.

For a moment, Hermione had wondered if Death had lied about only needing to sacrifice her immortality and really planned for Grindelwald to kill her. But Hermione has always followed her instincts, and her gut told her to, dare she say it, _trust _Death. And so the thought had been brushed off quickly after.

The back story of Hermione's schooling had an extra death certificate attached. Remus White (the unoriginal surnames had caused Hermione to snort in disbelief, but assumed it was for her benefit of easy remembrance so was grateful nonetheless), a Muggleborn and family friend of the Grangers, had 'died' not but four months ago, taking an Avada Kedavra for his goddaughter - Hermione - during a raid in Diagon Alley.

Remus (_White) _had gone to Saberlua Wizards Institute - a small wizardry school in Brazil - and graduated thirty or so years ago with top marks.

Having known Hermione was a witch after a bout of accidental magic, the man had offered to home-school his goddaughter when her parents had been reluctant to send the little girl off for most of the year.

Teaching Hermione had soon transferred to also schooling her friends.

The 1940's Hermione had met 1940's Harry, Luna, and Neville in the neighborhood she had grown up in, muggle school, and through Luna respectively. The Wesley's - halfbloods with a lesser known American pureblood mother - had been cousin's on their father's side, 'coincidently' enough.

Once the Granger's decided to not send their daughter to a wizardry school, the rest of the children demanded the same.

To explain Hermione's magical prowess, skills unusual for a twenty year old, Death had made it so Remus began teaching the children at age eight (nine and seven in the twins and Ginny's case) on theoretical magic. By the time the children could buy their wands, they had all learned what was taught in Fourth Year - minus the practical application. When Hermione was about to turn fifteen, Remus had taught the teens all that was needed, sending them off well prepared to take their O.W.L.S and begin self-study for the next two (one and three) years.

Hermione, of course, acquired all O's in her exams. (Unlike her O.W.L results in her time, where she had gotten an E in DADA.) She then spent two years working on her Masters for Defense Against Dark Arts, Potions, and Ancient Ruins, receiving all three titles two weeks after her twentieth birthday. The excuse for the short amount of time it had taken her to acquire her Masters (the norm usually being five years, and even with Hermione's brilliance, two years was quite a feat) was the witch throwing herself into her school work after the death of her parents, godfather, aunt and uncle, friends, and cousins.

War was merciless.

It was plausible, Hermione had admitted at the time, especially taking into account of her schooling beginning at such a young age.

The curly haired witch, though, still appeared as a magical prodigy to the rest of the Wizardry World and wondered if Death had purposely made this so.

Hermione hadn't expected _The _Grim Reaper to help as much as he had. Death had done so much more than she had asked - written a back story, planted false memories, been so _thorough - _that she couldn't help but wonder what he was getting out of all of this. (She also couldn't help but think Harry and Ron would be appalled at her, now ingrained, Slytherin tendencies and philosophies.) _Especially _when the sacrifice that had been required of her was obviously something she was happily willing to give up.

And, Merlin, not only had Death planted her existence in the 1940's so extensively, he had also left a job acceptance form at the bottom of the files. (Death had gotten her a bloody _job!)_ One which Hermione planned to take full advantage of. Fortunately, Hermione had wanted to apply for the position in her own time before the war with muggles began after discovering how improbable accomplishing her goals in the Ministry were. So the witch was rather excited by the opportunity.

One thing that she knew for certain: her position as the DADA Professor at Hogwarts would make this a rather interesting year indeed.

* * *

It was two days until September first and life in the past was full of hectic days of work. And Hermione loved it - for the most part, at least.

Compared to fifteen listless years of nothing but research - with the exception of projects she had done to keep herself entertained - the demands that came with the title 'Professor Granger' was very much enjoyable for the witch. Synopsis' and lesson plans needed arranged; analyzing past teachings, student's grade's and comment's the previous professor had thoughtfully written; ordering the assigned textbooks and several copies of tomes that Hermione would be referencing in the year; buying parchment, quills, and her personal favorite - red ink. (Hermione had mentally cackled while she outwardly smirked at the thought of channeling her own inner Severus Snape.)

All that was left to do was move her things and personalize the DADA classroom, her office, and quarters.

Truthfully, Hermione had put off such events to the very last moment. The thought of seeing Hogwart's again without her friends and beloved professors had the witch feeling quite forlorn.

Yes, Dumbledore was the Transfiguration professor, but with her lowered opinion of the man and her mission, this was certainty not a good thing. And, true, Slughorn was the Potion's Master of the school, but Hermione felt quite indifferent to this knowledge as she had only had the man as a professor in her Sixth Year. Furthermore, the thought of having McGonagall as her student, quite frankly, freaked Hermione out. The witch avoided these thoughts as much as she could.

As there were only two days left before term began though, Hermione could no longer put off her move to the old castle. Thankfully, she had thought ahead and had been visiting Diagon Alley for the past three days. It wouldn't do good to have another panic attack from the assault of long forgotten noises and haunting memories again. Twice was enough.

After her attack on the day she arrived, the second came when she had Flooed to the Leaky Cauldron for the first time in the past. Luckily, with the threat of Grindelwald, the pub had been empty of patrons and only the barman had been witness to her hysterics.

Though Hermione had seen - and hugged (!) - Death, it still came as a shock to see another living being. On top of this, she also had been able to make out the noises of a half-crowded Diagon Alley; happy - if a little subdued - chatter, peals of laughter, shrieks from excitable children, yells from disapproving parents, music. All of this combined made an overwhelming swell of sound and a panic induced, hysterical witch lost in nightmarish memories.

Hermione had quickly come to realize that she appeared to have a form of PTSD - though she had humorlessly dubbed her own as _Post-traumatic Armageddon Disorder. _

Not wanting to have an episode at Hogwarts, _especially _around the students, or more importantly, _Tom_ _Riddle_, Hermione had pushed herself to her limits by spending as much time as she could in the magical alley.

She wished she had factored her troublesome reaction into the equation (and this was not only a manner of speech) when making the deal with Death, but there wasn't anything she could do about it now so worked with what she had.

As a result of her stubborn determination, when not enjoying her new responsibilities as a professor, Hermione was fiercely working on her reactions to combined sounds and being in the presence of others. So far, she had made as much progress as she could in such a short amount of time - which was by managing to shorten how long the episodes lasted (after the first two memory drugged time lapses, Hermione did not fall into full blown panic attacks - rather become a trembling but an _aware _wreck) and becoming more accustomed to the on-slot of sound.

Hermione certainly wouldn't say she was anywhere near healed. Truthfully, she believed it would take quite awhile before she was back to reacting like a normal human being - if she ever would at all. Hogwarts was going to be difficult, she knew - extremely so - but only prayed she would keep her breakdowns in her quarters alone.

Today, though, was a great (she used that word loosely) time to test herself and deal with her reactions and feelings to being back in Hogwarts after so long. If she fell apart tonight, at the very least, she would have tomorrow to recover. Hermione already planned on keeping calming draughts on her person at all times, and with the House Elves at her call, she tried not to be too worried.

She was a war veteran, _dammit_, the optimum survivor. Silly school children and meddlesome old coots were a piece of cake.

No matter how hard she tried though, Hermione couldn't help but be anxious about facing Tom Riddle. Never mind _teaching _the boy.

Evidently he was not Lord Voldemort, she knew his true goals were for the better - but that didn't mean the teen was a kind hearted soul. Riddle had already murdered his father and parental grandparents by this time. Had made a Horcrux and killed poor Myrtle - though Hermione was not sure if that death had been intended or not. Nevertheless, it was obvious Riddle had no qualms in disposing those who had crossed him.

Hermione didn't want to judge though. She truly didn't. Dumbledore had been the one to tell Harry of these events. (Who told her and Ron.) She had no idea if he had deliberately caused a misunderstanding for the 'greater good' or had simply never truly known what had occurred and made assumptions based on what little he did know.

That isn't to say Hermione didn't believe Riddle had killed his father. She did, but, logically, she knew everything was subjective. Her only option was to wait and see - judge on what she experiences herself rather than the word of a manipulative old man. It was only right; especially when one considered her mission.

Inhaling slowly, Hermione shook herself from her musings. She had things to do and she couldn't waste the day fretting over possible disasters.

With this thought in mind, she strode towards her living room fireplace, her dark crimson robes billowing around her. (Hermione's lips twitched at another similarity between her and Snape.) Grabbing a handful of emerald green powder and sprinkling a pinch to activate the Floo, she stepped into the glowing flames with an uplift of her chin. She wouldn't bow her head in her fears - but rather stand tall, showing the professors and headmaster of Hogwarts just what kind of witch she was.

With a firm nod and a deep breath, she threw the Floo powder down and calmly called her destination, "Professor Granger's Quarters at Hogwarts!"

In a flash of verdant flames and a swirl of crimson, she was gone.

* * *

If the rest of the story comes this easily, I may have to take back the slow update warning.

As I said in the chapter before, I didn't plan for Death to be apart of AOS. (Though as soon as he thrust himself in the story, many ideas and scenes appeared.) But I always knew I would have Hermione travel to the past prepared. She's too logical and meticulous to not realize she would need things to survive in the 1940's - especially with her plans fifteen years in the making. The outcome was just better than she expected. Death's awesome, isn't he?

I also knew I didn't want Hermione to be a student. (Though to any who wonder: she would have been placed in Slytherin. For her mission and her own merits.) Professor Granger was the plan all along. Not only for reasons I won't disclose, but for the simple fact that this is not seen enough.

School in Brazil - Saberlua: this is a combination of two words in Portuguese. Saber - Knowledge. Lua - Moon. Obviously it's named after Remus, and I would have used 'wolf' instead of 'moon' but Saberlobo sounds worse than Saberlua.:p

Tom will appear in the next chapter, everyone!

Reviews will be received with much love and gratitude. Any questions you may have will be answered. And I would like to thank all my reviewers so far and to those who have favorited and followed AOS. Much appreciated.

Over and out, darlings.x)


	4. Strategic Plots

No Beta. Notes at the bottom.

* * *

**Chapter Four - Strategic Plots**

Strategy (strat-i-jee) - noun - 1. the science or art of combining and employing the means of war in planning and directing large military movements and operations. 2. a plan, method, or series of maneuvers or stratagems for obtaining a specific goal or result.

While not the strategic genius Ron had been - despite what many others had believed, the redhead _had_ been apart of the Golden Trio for a reason other than friendship - genius Hermione was. (And this little fact was _not _self-proclaimed but rather scientifically proven. So modesty was not needed in this case even if Hermione still had the trait.)

In the planning of her mission, Hermione knew simplicity was the best route to take. (Though 'simple' probably wasn't quite the correct word to use.) And with her position as the DADA Professor, her task had been made much easier to accomplish. (Again, an exaggeration. If only.)

Hermione had known she would somehow have to attract Tom Riddle's attention, preferably in the positive light. The original plan had been sending in brews she had invented to the Potion's Branch of the Department of Mysteries, then having said potions published and sold. Afterwards, she would run into Riddle in Diagon Alley - or, most probable, Knockturn Alley. She knew the Slytherin Heir would acquire a job at Borgin and Burkes for the opportunity of discovering old artifacts, and Hermione had planned to 'browse' through the store and strike up a conversation.

But with her new position, she needn't place her plans on hold as she would have had to before, what with waiting for the Seventh Year to graduate. The witch still had sent her inventions and notes to the DOM - any leverage would be of benefit - but the act was no longer a necessity.

Now, Hermione would just have to pique the Seventh Year's interest at Hogwarts. The simplicity of the plan was how she would to do so.

Tom Riddle, from what she had gathered from Harry and research (though information that came from Dumbledore was held with a grain of salt these days), valued power, knowledge, and intelligence. Traits which Hermione carried in abundance. (This was not arrogance; Hermione knew her strengths and wouldn't lower herself for fickle modesty. Too many years alone had wiped any reserve for her abilities that she had once held. What's the point of being modest when one was the only person left?)

So with this information, Hermione knew just by being herself would result in a spark of intrigue. The rest would be solved with subtle direction.

Riddle (or at least his elaborate façade) was considered a model student - the Golden Boy of his time. Professors and students alike doted on the boy, striving for his attention and showering him with praise. He was revered, followed, the favorite of many.

Hermione did not plan to follow such pre-established notions.

She would treat Riddle as any other student and, with an educated assumption, the witch believed this would entice further interest. (Though said 'interest' would most likely be frustration and annoyance.)

To pull the boy in further, under-currents of her favor of equal Magics would lace her lessons - and when the time came, she would make it known of her practice of paganism. With Hermione's status as Muggleborn, this would reel Riddle in exactly where she wanted him.

Hook, Line, and Sinker.

Hermione was no fool though. Riddle was unpredictable; a variable that could not be calculated nor pinned down. She knew control would not always be on her side, that the boy would be a challenge and a worthy opponent. (She ignored the fact that he wasn't supposed to be an _opponent _at all.) Games would be played, stakes at risk, and Hermione couldn't say she would always end up on top.

But though battles may be lost, she was determined to win the war.

The curly haired witch took a sip of her red wine with a small smirk. (Flavor deliciously setting her mouth alight, the years of only water having done wonders for her taste buds.) A small flex of a finger and the time in glowing numbers appeared before her.

Approximately three hours until the Hogwart's Express arrived. Just enough time to brew a very special potion - Hermione's trump card.

Let the games begin.

* * *

Indulgently, Hermione listened as Slughorn prattled on about his most favored students, the attendee's of the Slug Club. She nodded when appropriate and laughed lightly when the round professor chuckled, but most of her thoughts were focused on the older man sitting farther down the table.

After being introduced to the professors two days before, Dumbledore had invited Hermione to his office to chat over a cup of tea. As Hermione was not meant to already know the old wizard, she had politely accepted the invitation.

Lemon drops were offered and declined, tea poured ("One sugar and honey, please."), and biscuits were placed within reaching distance.

After polite small talk, Hermione was forced to endure a suspicious interrogation masked by a genial, grandfatherly disposition. Subtle prodding at her Occulumus shields would not have been noticed by a normal wizard, but Hermione was certainly not a normal witch. It had taken extreme self control to not lash out at the old man for his audacity (and to not violently toss out the wizard from the borders of her mind), but by the end of the visit, Hermione had managed to keep her composure intact.

Though the man did not entirely trust her (which she supposed was understandable - there was a war taking place outside of these stone walls), Hermione had not been subjected to another drilling of her past. She couldn't help but feel that it was only a matter of time before she was however, because she had caught the wizard several times peering at her over his crescent spectacles with a look of scrutiny.

It was an annoyance she would just have to deal with.

Turning her attention back to her old Potion's professor, Hermione was relieved when Dippet announced the arrival of the Hogwart's Express. As Dumbledore left the hall to greet the First Years, the older students had began filing into the room, making their way to sit at their designated House tables.

Hermione's eyes swept around the Great Hall, noting familiar faces. Her gaze lingered on two boys who must have been Harry and Ron's grandfathers. Seventh Years, both Gryffindor: Septimus Weasley and Harold Potter. The witch swallowed thickly and then hurriedly moved on with her appraisal.

At least half of the hall was staring up at Hermione curiously, their thoughts blatantly written across their faces: _why was someone so young sitting at the head table? _Those who were more clever than their fellow students noticed their old DADA professor missing from the table; Elliot Caroban, a wizard who had resigned to take up his old post as an Auror. It was obvious who had made the connection because similar assessing expressions were adorned on several students from different Houses and Years. Hermione wasn't surprised to see the majority of the looks came from Slytherin and Ravenclaw, sadly enough.

The witch inwardly smirked. In combination of their obvious assessment, most had a sense of disbelief about them. Doubt with a cruel edge of amusement. Their thoughts resounded in Hermione's mind as if they had been voiced:

_The Defense Against the Dark Art's professor was a woman. A very petite woman._

Hermione was well aware of the differences of now and that of her time. (And she wasn't talking about the lack of human life in one and the billions in the other. Or the fact that somewhere in this hall, Baby Voldemort was chatting with his 'friends'.) Women were still seen as dainty creatures in the 40's, and it was considered proper for a witch to marry right out of her schooling and breed her husband a heir or two quickly after the wedding. Most did not work at all, though it was not impossible to do so.

Out of all of the Hogwart's professors, Hermione was the only female on the staff. (With the exceptions of Madam Promfrey - the mother of Poppy Promfey - the Matron at Hogwarts, and Madam Stewart, the librarian.) The fact that she was the _Defense Against the Dark Arts professor _caused a great deal of incredulity to sweep through the students.

Truthfully, Hermione thought Death had a hand in her new title of 'Professor Granger'. No, she _knew _he did. He had been the one to leave the job acceptance letter in her bed quarters after all, so it was rather obvious. The witch didn't believe she would have been granted the position - hell, even been taken seriously - if Death had not worked some of his magic. It grated Hermione's nerves that she hadn't been considered and accepted for her own merits, but the promise of showing these people just what _this _witch could do soothed her irritations.

Face blank, not showing a hint of her thoughts and the emotions behind them, she continued surveying the room. Many of the students had lost enough interest by now that they were chatting with their friends, though Hermione noticed the glances shot in her direction as they spoke.

Ah, gossip. How dearly she had missed it so. (She couldn't help but wonder how Harry and Ron would feel about the phenomenal development of her sarcasm. She could almost hear their voices as if they were right there and teasing her: "'Mione, you're sounding more and more like that greasy git everyday." That would be Ron, of course. "You've been studying too much, Hermione. You should take a break." Harry really had been such a sweetheart.)

The witch stubbornly pushed these stray musings away. It was not the time.

Picking up her goblet of wine, she took a gulp rather than a sip. The alcohol didn't do much, but the heavenly taste grounded Hermione enough to focus back on the present. Or the living.

As she was placing the glass back on the table, Slughorn caught her attention once more, but this time, Hermione's mind did not wander to Albus Dumbledore.

"Hermione, dear, you _must _keep an eye out for our Head Boy," he told her cheerfully. "Tom Riddle: my very best student in all my time of teaching! He's one of my snakes, of course, and as charming as they come!"

"Hm, Tom Riddle..." Hermione acted as if she was trying to remember who the Potion's Master spoke of. "Ah. Highest marks in Hogwarts, yes? His scores in my class were all Outstandings, if I remember correctly. I scanned several of my students' past essays to gauge how far along they are in the subject, and his had been the best of the bunch. No mistakes at all."

"That sounds like our Tom!" he nodded boisterously, pride in his eyes. "Everyone here at Hogwart's is very fond of the boy. Well mannered and helpful with his peers. An exceptional student. A true prodigy! Why, quite like you, Hermione!"

At that announcement, Hermione appeared to be intrigued, and truthfully, it was not all false. (Inwardly, she also wondered if she should be worried about the amusement she felt at seeing personally the results of Riddle's façade.)

"A prodigy?" She asked rhetorically. She then hummed thoughtfully as she swirled a finger absently around her goblet. "Yes, if his practical abilities match his theoretical, I can see the truth in this."

Mouth open and halted, the First Years following Dumbledore though the Great Hall doors interrupted Slughorn's response.

Hermione pretended to pay attention to the Sorting while discreetly scanning the Slytherin table. As the Hat roared out 'Ravenclaw' and the students applauded, her gaze finally fell upon the student she was looking for. She knew it was him instantly by the flawless blank expression and the way his fellow Slytherin's seemed gravitate to the boy, gazing at him in thinly veiled awe.

Well, Fates be damned, she couldn't really call Riddle a 'boy' any longer.

Harry had told her and Ron that Voldemort had been attractive (not the exact word her best friend and used, but the same meaning nevertheless) in his youth. But it was odd to see the proof in person.

Hermione couldn't really connect the image of Lord Voldemort to this handsome teen.

Where as Voldemort had been a gaunt, unnaturally long figure, Riddle appeared to be a healthy wizard with a body to match. As he was seated, Hermione couldn't accurately guess how tall the Seventh Year was, but it was safe to say he was well proportioned and not something that looked like it came from a horror novel.

In comparison to Voldemort's non-human features, from what Hermione could see from her spot at the front of the hall, Riddle had a head full of neat, wavy hair, the color of raven feathers; a thin, aquiline nose; sharp bone structure with hollow, but healthy, cheeks; and a mouth that didn't appear to be non-existent. If the witch had to guess, she would say Riddle's eyes were charcoal in color, though she would need to be closer to the Slytherin to be sure. Certainly not crimson, that much she knew.

All in all, the image helped Hermione differentiate between her new student and the Dark Lord of her time.

While she had known that Riddle's original plans had been for the benefit of their world, and that Hermione herself possessed a Dark core, she had still fought Voldemort and his Death Eaters most of her life. (Before the apocalypse, that is.) And even if magically she and Voldemort were on the same side, morally and ideally, they had not been.

It had taken the witch a long time to see this, to flush away the guilt. She now understood, though, that even if she had been aware of where her magical abilities leaned, she still would have done everything in her power to bring down Voldemort. Because Hermione would _always _do what was _right _rather than what was _easy_.

So the fact she could not spot any similarities between the sociopath of her original time and Riddle dissolved a knot of tension she had not been aware of hoarding.

It was not just their physical appearance that was so very different. Voldemort had been too insane to hide his emotions, too far out in the sea of madness to have the prized control Slytherin's were known for. Riddle, though, seemed to be an expert judging by the complete lack of emotions on his face.

It was a bit disconcerting, to be honest. Nonetheless, Hermione would take this apathetic mask rather than Voldemort's crimson eyes dancing with madness, sadism, and hatred any day.

When the new DADA professor had fallen into her thoughts, she had had the sense to avert her eyes away from the Slytherin so as to not be caught staring. As a result, Hermione did not notice the calculating gaze that focused upon her for longer than she would have been comfortable with.

Two brilliant minds buzzed with new information. And two brilliant minds, in a moment of uncanny synchronization, thought, one amusedly and the other with stubborn determination: _This year will be remarkably different than years heretofore had ever been._

After all, their instincts had never failed the two before; and both of their guts whispered, "___Change."_

* * *

Finally, Tom is physically brought into the story! I'm sorry to anyone who hoped for an interaction between the two genius'. The first DADA class is in the next chapter, so y'all can look forward to that; I myself am really excited to write it.

Obviously, Hermione already knows this year will bring change. But her instincts aren't just talking about the things she has planned.

I find it easier to write thoughts rather than dialogue, so I hope it was okay. Granted, there isn't much in this chapter, but still...Did I get ol'Sluggy in character?

Any thoughts or questions you may have, just drop a review and I promise to respond. Though I don't promise an answer. Some things you will just have to wait and see.

Random: I've been dragged into a Tom/Hermione obsession again (the past six months or so having been dedicated to Tom/Harry) and I realized today just how deep in the hole I am. Anyone ever listened to Happy Together by Filter? (Not by The Turtles.) Images of Hermione and Tom in a Sweeney Todd like killing spree comes to mind. And then the chorus brings flashes of battle scenes where they're outnumbered, kicking ass, meet eyes in the last chorus (when Richard Patrick sings "You and me, me and you" without music) and pushing through the crowd of people to get back to the other because they know they're not going to make it. When the song ends, I mentally see the pair dying side by side after furiously fighting upon reaching each other, taking out as many as they can before their unavoidable deaths.

I'm not sure if I should be worried...


	5. Scholastic Evidence

No Beta. Notes at the bottom.

* * *

**Chapter Five - Scholastic Evidence**

Scholar (skol-er) - noun - 1. a learned or erudite person, especially one who has profound knowledge of a particular subject.

The next morning arrived with feelings of anticipation and bafflement. Hermione's bewilderment transpired from the fact that she was actually _here, _at Hogwarts and not in the house she had taken residence in during her time alone. Everyday since the deal with Death, she woke with a need to remember where exactly she was and what had passed. Moments of brief panic and then considerable relief and wonder.

This morning was not different - or perhaps, the perplexity and stupefaction was even more so apparent as Hermione remembered just where and what today was.

The term at Hogwarts officially began on September 2; classes attended and work assigned. Hermione, unsurprising, was very much looking forward to her morning and afternoon. The anticipation of teaching was high, but the need to prove herself even more so. Not only was she a _woman_ taking over the Defense Against the Dark Art's position, but she was a _young _woman who was not much older than the Seventh Years themselves. The student's doubts would need to be taken care of.

Hermione will not have every Year in her classes today, but she knew by the end of the night, every student would have been debriefed on what to expect. While Hermione had disliked the gossip mill during her time as a student, she planned to use it to her advantage now. Anything that would warrant Riddle's curiosity and interest would soon get back to the Slytherin throughout the year, making Hermione's job easier.

It would not be needed for today however. She had two Years she would be overseeing - four different periods overall - and the two were Third and Seventh. Riddle would be in DADA after lunch with the other Slytherin's and the Gryffindors; her third class of the day with a two hour block.

After the confrontation of doubts, as she knew there would be, Hermione planned to test her students in their knowledge of the course and their skills in dueling.

Despite having a steady professor five years of their schooling (a kindly old woman who had chose to retire) and an Auror their Sixth Year, Hermione had discovered the students had not had much practical teachings through the years. Unlike in her time, a dueling club was firmly established for everyone who wished to join, thus DADA was mostly a theoretical course at Hogwarts. Naturally, several shield spells and a few jinx's and curses were required to be practiced in class for their O.W.L's and N.E.W.T's, but other than those few examples, the students were encouraged to try any new spells during the dueling club. If need be, the child could approach their professor for help on a specific spell, but this 'should' only occur after asking another student.

Ridiculous. It was all very ridiculous.

It reminded Hermione of her Fifth Year with Umbridge and the Ministry interfering with Hogwarts. She wondered if the reasons were similar or if the curriculum had been implemented as such for the benefit of the two previous professors.

Madam Lorithel had certainly not been in her prime at the age of one hundred and eighty two, and Mister Caroban had taken the DADA post after being severely injured during a battle with Grindelwald's men. From what Hermione has heard from the other professors, the man had a very noticeable limp and was required to attend physical therapy. Professor Gress, the Charm's professor, believed Caroban had needed more time to heal his knee before he entered back in the field, but the Auror had been stubborn and refused to take another year off. (She wondered if this had been mere coincidence or if Death had influenced the man's decision.)

Ultimately, this year's DADA classes would be quite different from previous years. Instead of the majority of material taught being theoretical, it would be practical. And rather than simply being teachings of defense against dark magic, Hermione would teach _defense. _Against Light, against Grey, and yes, against Dark.

By the end of the year, Hermione was determined to at least have made her students question the _real _difference's between the branches of magic. Not the naïve opinions of Dark wizards and Light witches - the false, predetermined morality between cores.

_There is no good and evil; there is only power and those too weak to seek it._

Hermione smirked. If her timeline still existed, Voldemort would be rolling in his grave.

* * *

Slyly avoiding Slughorn's attempts at drawing her in another conversation, Hermione swept from the Great Hall much earlier than lunch was dismissed.

Her classes with the Third Years had gone much more smoothly than she had expected. Rather than questioning her competence, the children had chosen the 'wait-and-see' policy so as to not get on their new professor's bad side. Therefore, Hermione's morning had passed without deterrent.

The older Years would be much different, she was sure.

The witch welcomed the challenge.

Hermione left the doors of her classroom open behind her, striding into the brightly lit, expansive room and moving towards her desk. Without loosing equilibrium, the witch's form began to shrink. Orange, white, and dark brown hair grew and lengthened, a bushy tail sprouting as she fell onto all fours mid stride.

Where there had once been a human female, there was now a small vixen.

Only slightly bigger than a kit, the room Hermione had been assigned seemed almost meant for giants rather than witches and wizards. This became even more apparent when she stopped and sat near her desk, not able see the door from her position near the ground. Seven years of having this form had made Hermione used to this disparity however, and she no longer payed the height differences any mind.

Cocking her head at the slight disturbance of the silence, if fox's could smile, Hermione's small, pointed face would be smirking.

The former student had decided to take a page out of McGonagall's book. (After dismissing her amused considerations of emulating Snape.) However, her reasons were not for a Transfiguration demonstration.

In her Animagus form, Hermione was able to listen to her students freely speak without fear of their professor overhearing. The tactic would only be able to be used once as, with her classes before (which she had made vow to not divulge her Animagus abilities), she would reveal herself after listening in for several minutes. Other than to hear what the students had to say, her use of her animal form was to make a point.

Waiting patiently, Hermione finally heard the students begin to silently file into the room. She watched as the Seventh Years surveyed the DADA classroom while taking their seats, and mentally smiled at the double take she received.

"A fox?" One student muttered. After a quick glance, Hermione recalled the name of the Slytherin. Sebastian Prince, the elder brother of the Fourth Year witch Eileen Prince. Snape's uncle. (Hermione was grateful for her forethought of studying previous yearbooks to distinguish between name and face with her Seventh Years.) "An odd familiar to have."

When the last student took her seat, Hermione briefly scanned the room and mentally sighed at the distinct separation. Truly, house rivalries were very tedious.

The vixen's gaze lingered on a group of Slytherins. Sebastian Prince, Abraxas Malfoy, Orion Black, Walburga Black, Daedalus Avery, Ophelia Greengrass, and in the center was, of course, Tom Riddle. The elegantly clad teens were looking around the room shrewdly, dismissing Hermione after Prince's initial comment; though the Animagus did see the speculating glance Riddle had shot her.

Straightening from her sitting position, Hermione moved through the aisles of desks, weaving between chairs and legs. (She inwardly snickered at the startled yelps she received when brushing against students.)

The Gryffindors essentially felt the same in concern to Hermione. Curious on whether or not she would be an adequate defense professor; what she had done to be able to get the position in the first place. (Oh, just had a nice chat with Death is all. Nothing out of the ordinary.) Though Hermione scowled at a suggestion from one crude lion: "The bird is firm and round and fully packed. Dippet may be getting special...teachings." The waggled brow was unnecessary when deciphering his meaning.

Moving on after taking note of the brat - Trenton Rathbone - Hermione listened (eavesdropped) in on the Slytherins' conversations. Predictably, the vixen gravitated towards Riddle's little group near the front of the classroom.

"-told me she fought on the front lines," she heard Malfoy say. Hermione would bet her left leg that the Slytherin had mentioned his father in that comment.

Avery scoffed. "Front lines? The witch looks like a feather could knock her over. Your father must be misinformed, Abraxas."

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, it seems.

Hermione still found it disconcerting when confronted with Death's thorough maneuvers. In this case, it was being known as having been on the front lines against Grindelwald. She supposed the information was partly true - the only difference was the one behind the mask of Dark Lord.

She shook off her unsettlement and weaved through Avery's legs, smirking vindictively when the Slytherin cursed. The teen began to draw back his leg with a glare, but Hermione danced out of his reach with glinting eyes, moving closer to an observing Riddle.

Said Slytherin Heir smirked down at the vixen, and Hermione was startled when he reached down and ran a large hand across her back. "I do not think so, Daedalus," he said after straightening, an amused lilt in his voice. "There is a reason she acquired the position; Dippet would not have hired someone incompetent. And despite Granger's size, it is obvious from the way she carries herself that she is a proficient witch."

The female Black nodded in agreement. "And...did you see her eyes?"

Hermione, who had now moved away from Riddle, was startled by the girl's voice. The only encounters she had had with Sirius' mother was from her portrait in Grimmauld Place. And Hermione certainly wouldn't say the experiences had been pleasant. In shrill tones, the deceased woman had shrieked of 'mudbloods tainting her home' and any other insult she had used while alive.

Compared to the woman she would be (or perhaps not be), this girl almost seemed like a different person altogether. Appearance youthful and untainted by bitterness, the largest polarity was the girl's voice. The tone, rather than hostile and unhinged, was soft and almost sweet. It was...

Baffling.

Hermione was pulled from her stupor when Prince answered the female Black. "Yes," he murmured, appearing curious. "Her eyes...they were _haunted_. Something happened that..._broke _the professor. Something in the war."

If anyone had been looking, they would have seen the small flinch from the fox; but no one was, and the Slytherins carried on with their conversation.

"Everything happened," Malfoy solemnly said. When the others stared at him questioningly, he clarified. "My father did some digging in the Professor's past after the School Board was informed of the new DADA professor. Hermione Jane Granger is a _muggleborn," _he emphasized on the title, resulting in shocked and intrigued arched eyebrows. "She entered the war at sixteen after her aunt and uncle were killed in one of Grindelwald's raids. Granger...she's lost _everything_. Family, friends; everyone. Her parents died in some sort of transportation accident and the rest were killed in the war."

This revelation resulted in a thoughtful silence falling over the group. Hermione inwardly sneered at the pity in their eyes - _she did not need their pity! - _and moved on to the other Slytherins near Riddle's...followers? Friends? She wasn't sure.

As the Animagus trotted away, she heard said leader hum contemplatively and murmur, "A muggleborn and not a mudblood? How interesting."

Hermione wondered what the difference was. And if it was what she thought it meant, what did Death leave behind that caused Malfoy to come to such a conclusion?

She pondered on this as she listened with one ear to the other Slytherins, rolling her eyes when she found the ill-mannered comments she had been looking for. Other than Avery's doubts of her being on the front lines, Riddle's group was surprisingly respectful in their vocal thoughts of their new professor. Hermione wouldn't write off the possibility of their real opinions being hidden, but so far, the witch was impressed by the differentiation to what they were portrayed as in her timeline.

Her mission now seemed possible.

Padding quickly to the front of the room as the bell rang, signaling the start of class, she smoothly jumped on her chair and then her desk. She moved to the front of the polished wood and, after glancing around to see if she had the snake's and lion's attention, she began to transform.

Smiling serenely at the astonished gasps and wide eyed expressions of awe and worry (she threw a pointed look at Rathbone who paled), Hermione was perched calmly on the edge of her desk, appearing indifferent to the impressive feat she had just exhibited. While being an Animagus was a high accomplishment in it's own right, to have such control over one's transformation was a very rare thing indeed.

The display the students just witnessed seemed to have changed many of their opinions on their new professor. (Including confirmation of Riddle's speculations.) Exactly the reaction Hermione had wanted to achieve.

"Rathbone," Hermione suddenly barked, startling the students and causing several to jump. "Detention and twenty points from Gryffindor." When the boy's face flushed and he opened his mouth to protest, Hermione smiled sharply. "If you wish to argue, take it up with the Headmaster _after _you tell him the _reason_ for your punishment."

The Slytherins snickered while Rathbone paled and sunk down in his seat, avoiding the glares of his fellow lions. The attention of the students returned to Hermione when the witch pushed off from the desk, strolling forward.

"I understand there are many _doubts _that all of you have," she began, her gaze lingering on the three Slytherins who had gleefully snickered over the easy O this class would be. The trio flinched under her heavy stare. "We will assuage these concerns before moving on with the lesson. Any volunteers?"

The students looked at each other hesitantly. Just as Hermione was about to randomly select a student, Avery rose from his seat and slowly sauntered to stand near the professor. Noting the cautious but slightly arrogant expression on the boy's face, Hermione allowed a small smirk to appear. Intrigue filtered across the faces of the group Avery had just left, and Riddle seemed to be amused as he relaxed back in his chair.

"Everyone, please move to stand by the wall." She gestured to the left side of the room, waiting patiently as the students all complied. Some seemed to be confused on what would be happening, but Hermione saw many dawning looks of comprehension on the faces gazing at her and Avery.

She snapped her fingers and mentally laughed at the startled yelps the abrupt vanishing of the desks garnered. She was given astonished looks after the shock dissipated. Even Riddle seemed impressed by her wandless magic, though she wondered if the Slytherin would still feel the same if he knew just how many years she has had to practice her magic.

Avery seemed to regret volunteering after that advance display, staring at the witch with trepidation. Hermione only gave the boy a smile, but this did not seem to appease Avery's worries. If anything, it appeared that they only increased.

Eyes glinting in amusement, the witch turned and scanned the other students waiting impatiently. Finally, as her gaze stopped on a familiar face, she made sure to call neutrally, "Mr. Potter, you will referee this duel."

The boy eagerly bounded forward and stood just outside of the glowing shield Hermione had conjured.

The witch took several steps back and Avery warily followed her lead until the pair were an appropriate distance away for a duel. The professor and student both flicked their wrists to bring forward their wands, and when Hermione intoned the familiar, "We bow," the pair fell into the traditional sign of respect, taking their positions after straightening.

That is where the similarities stopped.

Where as Avery fell into a rigid stance, his legs spread far apart and his wand held tightly in his hand, Hermione's posture was relaxed and at ease, as if she was not about to engage in a duel but rather chat with friends. One foot was in front of the other, legs spread comfortably with the front knee slightly bent and her wand held loosely in her right hand; her pointer finger pressed against the wood and her wrist relaxed.

Out of Hermione's line of sight, Tom Riddle's eyebrow had rose in intrigue. The professor's dueling stance was very similar to his own. A small smirk curled on his face from knowing Daedalus was about to be trounced in a duel. With magnified interest, he focused his attention on the professor and watched the proceedings.

Potter intoned the traditional count down of a civilized duel, the rest of the students leaning forward in anticipation.

Just as soon as the duel started, it ended. Before Avery could even blink, never mind act, he was petrified, bound, and wandless. The Slytherin stared up at the ceiling in shock, trying to wrap his head around what just occurred.

The rest of the students were in similar frames of mind, their eyes focused on Avery's incapacitated form. (Avery, who was apart of _Riddle's_ gang.) And then, slowly, their attention moved to their new professor, awe in their gaze. They hadn't even seen the witch move; not a mouthed spell or even a _twitch_ of her wand! Most swallowed thickly at the indifferent look in the professor's eyes, wondering just how powerful this witch was.

Tom Riddle wondered the same, staring at Granger with a hungry glint in his charcoal orbs. One determined thought swirled in his mind: ___Dumbledore will not have this witch on his side; she will be one of mine_

* * *

There you are, the first Defense class. (Jesspanda, you were right!) The rest of the lesson will be in the next chapter.

It seems Hermione has got her wish; Tom's interest=captured. A giddy schoolgirl describes me well when Tom petted Hermione. Or, more appropriately, a fangirl.

On Voldemort's quote ("_...no good and evil...power...too weak to seek it."_): I have read - and been in - many arguments over this concept. Feel free to tell me your opinion because I'm going to tell you mine. In general, I partly agree, but only in terms of there being no 'good' or 'evil'. I see the world in shades of grey. On the latter part of the statement, not so much. But I said 'in general', didn't I? In terms of magic, I very much agree with this quote. Even the Unforgivables aren't one dimensional - you just have to think outside the box to see. If this philosophy is 'evil' to any of you, so be it.

Animagus: I took several quizzes and answered as Hermione would to find her form. Yes, quizzes. The first quiz I took, the result was an otter. I discarded this because Hermione is not the same girl she had been. You don't know how many times 'Hermione' got _beaver_. The irony. I just couldn't do it to the poor witch so I moved on. Hawk was also seen a lot but since Hermione has a fear of heights, this wasn't used. _Finally, _after taking many quizzes (and many, _many _beaver results), a fox showed up as an answer. Really, even this isn't perfect for a reason that will be revealed in the next chapter. But despite this, the rest of the profile fit Hermione very well and so it was decided a fox would be her Animagus form.

If you have a question, it's worth a shot to ask; I may answer, I may not, depending on the content. I have a question myself: favorite part of the chapter? And is it the same as mine? (Tom petting our beloved vixen. *squeal*

My profile has notes and update times on all of my stories. Check it out if you're curious.

Hope everyone enjoyed the chapter and thanks for reading.


	6. Stimulating Changes

No Beta. More notes at the bottom.

* * *

**Chapter Six - Stimulating Changes**

Stimulate (stim-y_uh-_leyt) - verb - 1. raise levels of physiological or nervous activity in (the body or any biological system). 2. encourage development of or increased activity in (a state or process).

Hermione hadn't been sure how the new Defense Against the Dark Arts synopsis would be received. Negative opinions wouldn't force her hand to change the already mapped out year, but they would have been a kink in her plans nevertheless.

Fortunately, while there were some complaints against physical participation - _the horror -_ the new DADA arrangements had been mostly met with approval. The eager faces etched with anticipation and excitement said as much, for which Hermione was most grateful. This year would already be difficult as is, what with her own personal brand of PTSD and luring Tom Riddle into her best intentioned influence. Whiny school children was not wanted.

The reactions to Hermione's aforethought but slightly impromptu speech had been enlightening, telling the witch exactly who would rebel and who would not. Ironically, the Slytherin's had taken to their new professor much more quickly than the lions. This disappointed Hermione a bit - she wasn't fond of her old House's bigoted behavior - but it wasn't much of a surprise.

However, displeased as she was, Hermione was determined to get her and Riddle's goals moving by the end of this year. (No matter that the Slytherin did not yet know this.)

If her world was going to survive in the future, they would need to be united and not ostracizing half of their population. Hermione's seen how _that _had worked out, and the witch would be damned if it happened again.

Hermione's eyes glinted with her infamous stubborn mindset and the crackling fire. _Hogwarts wouldn't know what hit them._

* * *

_Eight hours earlier. _

The classroom was silent as the students stared at the DADA professor, anticipation starting to enter their eyes and many mouths still ajar with awe. Avery, blank faced, gave Hermione a respectful nod as he took back his wand, and the witch smiled as her own transferred back into the wand holster on her arm.

"Thank you, Mr. Avery. Twenty points to Slytherin. Everyone, gather round." Hermione waited as the students shuffled forward, muttering to their friends about the demonstrative duel. (If the five second meeting of wands could even be called _that._) Once the students were standing in front of the curly haired witch, she asked, "Can anyone tell me what Mr. Avery's mistake had been?"

Hesitant looks between the peers while one brave lion called, "He dueled you, Professor!"

Hermione simply smiled, not responding to the comment and raised an eyebrow. Waiting.

"His stance," Riddle said calmly, not sparing the boy in question a glance as his gaze stayed riveted on the professor.

Though his expression was unfathomable, something in the Slytherin's eyes made Hermione feel slightly uncomfortable. Refraining from fidgeting, she nodded. "Correct. Can you tell me why, Mr. Riddle?"

The blank expression did not change as he responded matter-of-factly, "His body was tense where as it should have been loose for the needed movement of a duel. His feet were spread too far apart; he could have been easily tripped. And his wand was being held too tightly." Riddle's mien was dry as he said, "I'm surprised it didn't snap."

With twitching lips, Hermione nodded. "Indeed. Another five point to Slytherin." The witch moved to lean back against her desk, crossing her arms and abruptly changing directions. "This class will be different than your previous years. From what I understand, DADA has been used for theory. That will no longer be the case.

Almost everyday, you will be up and moving. Expect to leave this classroom sore and exhausted, because I will be working all of you for the two hours I have you. Complaints will be dismissed, and if you do not do as you're assigned, you will be dropped from this class-"

"You can't do that!" A female lion interrupted. Hermione studied the bristling student and recognized the mousy brown hair and green eyes. Augusta Longbottom. Neville's grandmother. From the look of utter outrage and anger on the Gryffindor's face, she was quite different from Hermione's plant loving friend.

"Rule number one: do not talk while I am speaking," Hermione said, not acknowledging the indignant complaint. "As I was saying-"

"Professor, you can't-"

Hermione's cool regarding of the girl stopped the Gryffindor from continuing. She allowed the silence to build as the Slytherin's watched on eagerly, the Gryffindors cringing and praying for the safety of their house points. Finally, "Miss Longbottom, I will be lenient as it is the first day, but if you continue to interrupt me, expect detention, understood?" The girl nodded embarrassedly, and the way she ducked her head reminded Hermione so much of her grandson that she had to swallow heavily before continuing, "I can and _will _drop anyone if they do not follow directions. Do not make me do so."

Hermione's gaze moved sharply from one student to the other. The expression's of excitement were now dulled to that of dread, but she saw the approval on a few faces. One being Riddle's. The smile that wanted to appear was stifled as Hermione noted the look of interest in his eyes. Good. Only thirty minutes into the class and she had already accomplished what she had set out to do.

"_As I was saying," _Longbottom's face flushed at the emphasis. "When you come to this class, expect to participate. I will not have _anyone _slacking.

This year, we will be mainly focusing on dueling." A few hands shot up but Hermione ignored this and continued. "You may bring a change of clothing if you wish, and I will give you the last ten minutes of class to shower.

You will sweat, you will hurt, and you may even hate me; I don't care. I am preparing you for life, for the war that is raging beyond these walls.

As of right now, to all of you, this is no longer Defense Against the Dark Arts. This class is now just _Defense. _You will be learning how to defend yourself against all branches of magic, not just Dark. And-"

"What!" Septimus Weasley shouted. Hermione's eye twitched at being interrupted _again, _and how the loud exclamation caused her chest to constrict in a brief moment of panic. "We don't need to protect ourselves from bloody _Light magic! _We need to protect ourselves from slimy gits!"

"Like Slytherins!" Harold Potter chimed in, nodding furiously. "Dark Magic is evil, not Light!"

"Dark wizards should be thrown in Azkaban!" Another lion, Valentine Glorith, yelled in agreement. "Let the Dementors have their twisted souls!"

Hermione took a deep breath through her nose to prevent her face from showing how she felt. And to push down the livid fire the comments ignited. Before the rest of the students could erupt, for she could see the snakes tensing and the lions eagerly awaiting a fight, she hissed coldly, "_Quiet."_

Immediately, the students' gazes moved to their professor. And promptly froze. Hermione's magical aura, despite her attempts at keeping it hidden, had begun to leak with her ire. The room was suddenly colder than it had been before, and to the students horror - correction, to the lions horror and the snakes glee, Hermione's shadow appeared to be _dancing _with her anger.

Tom Riddle felt his breath catch slightly as the heavy, but moderately _subdued, _aura washed over him. It beckoned his own to come out and play, to mingle and entwine with this delightfully _Dark _presence. He had known Granger had been masking her magic at the welcoming feast, but he hadn't been expecting _this. _Granger was more powerful than he had assumed - this taste was only a _hint _of her magic and so very mouthwatering - and she was a _Dark witch. _How...devine.

He was disappointed when the Dark aura disappeared.

Hermione took another deep breath as the first had obviously not calmed her enough. Drawing in her magic and tightly binding it around her, she took in the reactions of the students. Only to want to sigh in exasperation.

Fearful was putting it mildly when describing the Gryffindor's expressions. They were staring at Hermione like she was Grindelwald himself. The Slytherins, on the other hand, appeared to be utterly gleeful at their fortune. (_They got a Dark witch as their professor - thank you, Lady Magic!)_

Hermione inwardly berated herself. This was _not _how she had wanted this class to go.

"Mr. Prince," her tight voice startled the students out of their daze. "Give me an example of a Light spell that could cause physical damage."

"_Sectura," _the Slytherin said with a smirk, eyeing his professor with a look of delight. "A curse that was made to cut wood, but could easily cut off someone's arm. Or _head._"

The Gryffindors paled.

Hermione nodded. "If you can give me two more examples, you will get thirty points."

"_Ignis: _the spell most use to light their fireplace," he replied without hesitation, and his smirk grew. "_Wingardium Leviosa," _he drawled. "First year levitation charm. You can levitate someone fifty feet in the air and drop them. The impact would probably kill the person."

Hermione's lips twitched. The Gryffindors stared at Prince, aghast, while the Slytherins matched their house mate's expression and smirked triumphantly.

"Very good. Thirty points to Slytherin," Hermione awarded. Then her eyes narrowed on the lions. "Mr. Potter, Weasley, and Miss Glorith. Detention. And fifty points from Gryffindor."

"Fifty po-" Weasley began to splutter, but halted when he saw the dark look on Hermione's face.

"If there are anymore interruptions," she began, her voice soft. She slowly looked between the students as she spoke. "You will be getting a weeks worth of detentions. Am I clear?" At the hurried nods, she smiled sharply. "Good.

We have forty minutes of class left." Hermione said, her voice lighter. "I will tell you what this year's lessons will consist of, then will answer any questions you may have afterwards.

As I said earlier, you will be learning how to defend oneself against _everything_, not just the Dark Arts. This will include muggle techniques, such as karate and kick-boxing. If you don't know what these two things are, that is fine, you will learn.

Next week, we will begin morning runs." Hermione smiled wryly at the groans this received but did not comment. "I have already gotten Headmaster Dippet's approval. Every morning at six sharp, we will be meeting at the entrance of Hogwarts. We will start off with a twenty minute run, and every week, we will add on an extra five minutes until we reach an hour. This is required. If you do not participate, you will be dropped from the class. No excuses.

In addition, every month, a physical exam will take place. Almost like a muggle obstacle course. Only at the end of the year will your performance be graded, as this course is part of my final.

I am aware this is...quite _different _than what you're use to, but that is not an excuse. If you ever need help, feel free to come to me. That is my job, after all. But if you don't, and your grade suffers because of this, don't complain to me. I _hope _that every single one of you will pass, but if you're struggling and you do not ask for help or tutoring, whether that be from me or your peers, then it's you who will have to deal with the Poor you receive, not I.

Any questions?"

The gaping expressions amused Hermione to no end. The looks of dread almost made the witch laugh out loud. Instead, she raised an eyebrow and waited.

After a few moments of silence, Walburga Black ventured to ask, "Will we need to bring our books to class?"

"I will tell you when to do so," Hermione said. "Most of the time, your books will be used only for homework."

"Why are we learning how to duel?" Carrick Finnigan questions in a thick Irish brogue. Hermione thought the Gryffindor appeared a bit insulted. "We already know how, and there's a club for that."

She smiled, a tad darkly. "Indeed. After you have survived a life versus death battle, Mr. Finnigan, then you may tell me you know how to duel. And from what I have heard, the club is not much more than a competition between the students. There is no _teaching _involved."

Another Gryffindor, a girl named Roselle Malory, appeared just as offended as her Irish classmate. "Not to be disrespectful, Professor, but _you have_? Fought in battle, that is."

Before Hermione could answer, Frederica Allesbury, a lion, scoffed. "Please, Malory. Professor Granger fought on the front lines against Grindelwald's army. Besides, did you _see_ the way she totally beat Avery?"

"The front lines?!" Several students exclaimed. The Gryffindors, who had been staring at Hermione earlier with fear, looked at her in disbelief. Riddle's group obviously wasn't surprised, but the rest of the Slytherins matched the lions.

"Yes, I did fight in the war," Hermione said blandly. "Now, any questions that has to do with the class and not my personal life?"

Malory blushed.

The looks of awe were back. The dread that had been on most of the students' faces were now replaced with anticipation and excitement. _They were going to be taught by a war veteran! _There were also a few disbelieving expressions scattered around, but the duel between the professor and Avery brushed off most of the incredulity.

When no one spoke up, the excited glances at friends telling Hermione a need to gossip was high, she said, "Alright. For homework, I want everyone to write an eight inch essay on the correct ways to duel. I also ask that no one mention my being an Animagus. Class dismissed."

The disgust at being assigned homework was outweighed by the relief of being able to leave class early. The students excitedly chatted as they gathered their things, which had moved to the side of the classroom when Hermione had vanished the desks.

When the last student disappeared around the corner of her door, Hermione dropped into her chair with a sigh. Rubbing her face and then running the hand through her curly hair, she could only feel weary at knowing Dumbledore would be cornering her soon. The offers of lemon drops was sure to increase this week. Hermione cursed.

* * *

The last DADA class Hermione had with the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws went much more smoothly than Riddle's block. Why was it that Slytherin and Gryffindor were always paired together? It was only asking for trouble.

Much to Hermione's surprise, Dumbledore had not yet found an excuse to interrogate the witch. It was now dinner, and upon seeing her, the old man had only offered a tight smile. Hermione knew it was only a matter of time, however.

"How was your first day teaching, Hermione?" Ramen Gress inquired, pushing some liver and onions on his plate. Hermione wrinkled her nose. Upon arriving in the past - and amongst the living - the witch realized that she could no longer stomach eating meat. After living in a world where everything but her was dead, the fact that people killed animals for food now disgusted her. Thus began her life as a vegetarian. (Though the past fifteen years had been spent on only being able to eat watered down and mushy canned fruits and vegetables, so it wasn't much of a change.)

"It went well," she told him after taking a sip of butterbeer. "There were a few complaints, most notably over getting up early to run in the mornings, but overall, the classes passed smoothly." _Other than accidentally releasing my magical aura and causing the lions to fear me._

"I did hear something of that, my dear." Slughorn chuckled. "Running in the morning? The bemoaning such a requirement must have received."

"Yes," Hermione smiled falsely. "You would think I asked for them to take a run in the Forbidden Forest from all of the comments it garnered. But physical endurance is very important in dueling."

"Quite so," Raman nodded firmly. "I always told Armando the DADA class should be more practical. Theory can only get one so far."

The Astronomy professor, Darany Tulok, added, "Especially with Grindelwald running around. I had hoped Elliot would have taught as such, as he had been an Auror, but his injury prevented him from doing so."

"This is why I will be working the Seventh Years very hard this year," Hermione told them after swallowing a bite of steamed asparagus. "I hope the Dueling Club has prepared them some, or they'll be in for a shock."

A look of doubt was on Raman's face. "Expect a shock, Hermione. Albus is an excellent professor, but he only interferes in the Dueling Club if the students get out of hand."

The witch couldn't help but sigh at this. "I suppose it was too much to hope for."

Darany, who was sitting to Hermione's right, patted her hand. "It won't be too bad. I'm sure they'll get the hang of things soon enough."

As Hermione looked out into the sea of eating students, she couldn't help but doubt this. If Avery was one of the top students at Hogwarts, considering his marks and the whispers and reactions of his peers, Hermione was in for a long year.

This prediction was only augmented when she met the calculating eyes of Tom Riddle. She wondered how long he had been watching her as the Slytherin gave a polite, if emotionless, smile, and then turned to Prince when he began speaking.

Hermione's mind flashed back to earlier that day. At the time, she hadn't been able to understand the emotion glinting in Riddle's eyes after the duel with Avery. But it suddenly struck her exactly what had been lurking there, and wondered if this was good or not. She _had_ wanted his interest and attention, but feelings of possessiveness was not something she had been aiming for.

After all, he was _hers, _not the other way around. He just didn't know it yet.

* * *

I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter. I don't think I like it...Anyways, I was going to upload this yesterday (sorry **kvdsouza**) but I'm sick and ended up sleeping all day.:p Fun, fun, fun.

Question: how's the dialogue? Did it flow, or did it sound weird?

You know, I just realized: I'm really surprised no one asked about the 'trump card' part in chapter four. No one forget the mention!

Until next time, darlings.


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